Fidelis Ad Mortem.

I trace back myself to the bygone days
to friends, foes, strangers.
Walking back, i try to remember
whether it was worth it or not,
whether my stories would turn out
different than the others.
I was a king, god, fallen one, mortal
I now realize, I'm only human.
To remember is easy, to commemorate
is easier - to live with absence is herculean.

To have faith still or to be done with?

Were it was supposed to end like this
or with a different outcome,
that remains the question.
If not this, then what? Then how?
Why?

As August Ends.

As August comes to an end,
so does the penance
so does the peace and
so does the pain.
I have lived and died and lived
moment by moment, in sufferance
and in healing, in assumption
that I can crack no more,
in self-assured future, in distorted presents.

As August comes to an end
your words come closer to reality,
I saved them for later doses.
Our memories are on fire,
they burn in rage and broken possibilities,
and I keep choking on their ashes,
I keep hearing your last blames.
Everyone else is sleeping in dreams and
certain peace that I too knew once,
now my nights keep taking me back to
your last calls, peace to me is a longing.

As August comes to an end, sooner this too
will die out due to the lack of attention.
Or I  shall hope for tomorrow and
tomorrow to explode in a thousand words to choose.
As August comes to an end,
I believe so should you.

Reset

If i had a nickle
for every time i wanted
to hit that reset button and start over.
Take back the pain and save you the trouble, make things right,
for once, for twice, for a few hundred times.

To meet you again, like strangers,
you'll ask my name and I'll buy you
a cup of tea. We'll talk on endless notes.
We'll be friends of fabric and designs,
and smile and laugh and make faces.

I am still looking for that reset button,
I found it too, a couple of times,
i was so close to hitting it in hope,
and faith.
But I didn't, I can't, I won't.
I can't remember to let go again and again.

From the diary.

18th january, 2019.

With regular practice, pretence becomes an easy craft. Well, that goes for everything in this world without saying, the point is, pretention is a very handy tool for the tricky situations one finds oneself more than often and more than necessary.

After a point, pretention leaves a big room for improvement and sometimes healing too.

I have been pretending for a while but now I think I am fine. The only cost is that I am now more disconnected and distant than before, almost for a lot of people. I however cannot judge it's merits and demerits without being biased towards a favourable outcome and that is just wrong.

In a way, everything is!

Rishiraj. 

Marlboro Man

I wonder how many cigarettes will it take

to build a mound of ash,

big enough to fill the grave of multiple

corpses, it won't be easy. 

Everyone sees the packets everyday I buy,

a slender tube dangles from my blackened lips regardless of time,

the sides of my fingers are yellow

and yesterday I spat some blood. 

Everyone's a doctor now, everyone's playing 

Dr. Phil, I cannot make them understand

the unresolved points my life has seen

or for the fact that I'm not the one who dies

I haven't done that yet. 

So I steal the song from Fool's Garden,

"I wonder how I wonder why..."

making it a maxim I'd hum along,

maybe a little Phil Collins

if I am in the mood.

I drive in my matt blue car 

with a cigarette lit,

I kept the last one in the dashboard

along with her last one, with the lipstick mark which she left there before flying off

for a new life afterwards.

So I keep wondering, I wonder

how much cigarettes will I need,

before I finally make it all go

or before I finally make it.

Overt Thoughts.

So you say 

that there's still hope,

for me, for us, for you.

I can live with that.

I see the minutes trudge away, 

leaving marks and

scratches, redolent of histories 

and songs of us; the detriment

has a progression, only matched 

by my hubris of going on,

what else can I do?

I can live, as I have, and as I will,

with the relatable facts and venal

fictions, with dates I cannot forget

and words I don't want to remember,

as you say, there's still hope,

as you'd know my inane volition

has ever been a little bit confused; 

I don't know where to stop. 

Intent's tendencies are all about tomorrow

and for all we know, I still have remnants 

of you left, for my most own moments.

Because there's still hope,

not of you, not here, not mine, never anymore; but of me.

Acerbic afternoons and corroding 

evenings will be my routine

and I know things will fade, as I have

from you, but since I still can write

lambasting or loving in the livid moments,

I know, there's still hope. 

Rex

For a moment as it were,
I was a king.
Of rubbles and ruins,
of prosaic sepulchre
and of the warren lanes of
the same tenacious exaltations.
Yes, I was a king, of things and dreams,
of nightmares; but my robes were clean.

I lost my throne, my crown forfeited,
a long time ago my kingdom corroded.
As I walk the winding halls, clueless and empty I leave traces only so
I can go back.
I leave a trail of blood, my robe is dripping red everywhere I walk.

For a moment as it were,
I was a king, and I ruled.
No more, never again.
My castle fell and
my robes are not clean.

Reset 00.00

31st December 2018.

Just a few more hours left before the world rushes into the new year of 2019. There would be plans made, promises taken, resolutions built on the remnants of the previous year. And that is a novel thought; one should indulge in such wise things.

Personally, I cannot complain about things for mostly two reasons - 1. there is no point, what has been done is done, the damages and the pleasantries both are now an inseparable part of me and 2. I have been complaining for quite some time now. I was allowed to do so, but if it goes out of hands it makes life miserable and I cannot add more misery to the already nauseating miasma I have been dealing with. So, I shall at least try to avoid that.

Remembering the year 2018 would not be a huge task; very few instances have been remarkable this year and for all the wrong reasons too and reiterating them would be asinine and self-immolating, but I will make a passing comment that it was not a joyride. This year would be particularly seared in the memories for the rest of my life and I wish, it was for good reasons, happy reasons. But then again, when has it happened that I asked for something and I got it the way I wanted it? Sepulchral as it was, it could have been extremely egregious, so I think I should be thankful for the anti apotheosis that arrived. Not with a bang but with a whimper, it bids its goodbye.

I have no aversion for the year but maybe for the people responsible for the execrable end that I now face. Detriment was not on my list, but since it is there, it should not be dismissed. And I know, some of the people would argue that I should take reigns instead of blaming, I am just stating the fact that there are people who are responsible. Whether I should have seen this coming or not has been answered in other "entries", they should be seen as the raison d'etre or at least as the building components.

Was this a burr to my cognitive fabric? In certain sense, it does ask for some excoriation, but I think I should, by being a better person, rescind my lambaste and say goodbye.

Drink, eat, indulge in ribald revelry if you can, you have earned it and you deserve a good end o' the year. Because tomorrow you reset things.

peace!

R.

Fade

Strung high out of my reach my dreams,
now wait for the winds - your time has come.
Hopes, plans, sincere faith and genuflection,
they now are regrets, mistakes as she called them, value of sentiment is not more than dust as I keep forgetting my own nature.
All I needed was peace,
all I needed was the last few moments
with you.
The blade is still inside, as I play with my thoughts - I keep burning them, they keep
coming back.
This could've been avoided,
and I have tried.

Gabirol's serenity prayer.

30th October 2018.

Things get clearer in times of solace. I have heard this piece of eternal wisdom for n number of times and regardless of that, it never made sense to me. Now that I think about it, nothing makes sense to us unless they want to. And that's okay, not everything is a clear result of cause to effect, never is.

Solomon ibn Gabirol said that at the head of all understanding – is realizing what is and what cannot be, and the consoling of what is not in our power to change. So even if I might try to understand a certain things at a given point, this axiom renders it null.

I am wary of the promises, not as a stung person, but I now understand the futility of it, the asininity it presents is bewildering. I for one, had believed that we can always use our words first, communicate, think and rationalize even the most trickiest of situations and for most of the part, I was either too successful or was too blind to determine the course my words took. This in recent times have proved to be fatal to my most intimate relationships - of friends.

Yes I agree that in an age of extreme rote lives people mostly now engage in more prudish forms of association, where it lacks a lot of emotional contents; and rightly so, it's easy, expedient, but that makes sense as it reduces the off chance of getting robbed of one's own existence. I am a bit old school, "rusty old soul", a friend calls me, naturally I prefer things to be more connected or not connected at all. Which I now see has been a grievous fault; my propensity to take matters at an extreme level had always been a problem if not driving things to a point of sudden and abrupt endings. It leads me to wonder, whether there's something wrong in my approach. With age and events I am not growing wise, I am getting tired, my indiscretion comes not from self awareness but from an unbearable exhaustion.

The drivel and the manic misfortunes which just doesn't seems to end boils down to a more refined understanding of human bonds, for me at least; there are people, good in their own accord, who cannot seem to grasp what chances are. Now, it might seem as my hubris speaking, but I understand now that regardless of my best of promises, no matter what I did, the fault lines were always there. If not me then someone else would have came across them.

Do I want to cross the bridge once more or not is not a question for now, and by my estimate, it never will be. But then again, it is indeed a small world after all.

R.

In Poem

I remember you,
in poems and songs,
in an absent minded hum,
on a lazy sunday afternoon dream,
or on a bookmarked page in my second favourite novel;
everyday, against my volition.

In a day of coffee coloured sky
and when it's all drivel, I remember you,
in the corner of my eye.
When your head was on my shoulder
and my words, and your words
had meaning,
When our smiles had pureness
and love was just not a notion.

I remember you on an untuned guitar
and all the wrong notes were unwavering.
And in days to come, when I get old,
when love fades and everything is gray, I will remember how you left.

Feral wolves gnaw at my heels,
as I walk away from the past.
Blood of the ghosts, dried on my sleeves,
a testimony to what I was, what I became,
what I am and what I am becoming.
I walk away from the beginning,
from the ends that I caused,
from the dark under the flame.
I pray that I can walk away.
But the wolves and the ghosts, and
the strains of blood, they never forget.
As Sisyphus I carry my penance,
paranoid, cynical, fake to the core;
I have debts I cannot pay.
I have debts that I will never pay.

Afraid.

I pick the pen to write,
my fingers run over the keyboards,
I go back in time, jumping years back, to the
the first moment I saw you, and retrace myself - to the present.
I am keeping drafts of letters, saved in my archives, reading and rereading every word,
am I sincere? Are any of those words true?
Should I send you those or let the words drown me?

Contents of my pages.

Everyone tells me, "it's gonna be fine",
but they have no answer.
Everyone tells me, "give it time",
but they have got no answer.
I've got advices on how everything has a tag,
on who deserves what and where should I draw a line,
on how should you be and what I shouldn't do.
I don't blame them, they are not here.
They didn't see us, they won't understand.
But you did, you said, you felt and stayed.
But now what?
I should keep hoping, that's all I can do,
but my friend, my love, I am weak.
I cannot even hope, without you.
They don't have any answers,
and I am running out of questions.

Effort.

My kingdom is on fire as I drown in Irish whisky,
Looking at our old photographs,
reading our old letters and my diary.
Every ounce that I spared, thinking or just flowing, they were true, I never preached,
but those were pure, under the solemn vows I made to gods I never believed,
I tried, I am trying.

But you, you left, walked away, left me
in a trail of my own disgust and in doubt
of my efforts, words, promises, love.

It's 3.42 AM, and I am still waiting, hoping
with my breath held in anticipation and wish.

And for what?

Just so you can forgive me.

My kingdom burns to the ground,
and I can't even laugh.

Judgement.

Time will ask you questions,
on the eve of your promises unmade,
as it will ask me questions.
Under the solemn vow, we will be tried,
judged, and sentenced, the gavel will fall,
and we will be condemned.

You always knew the truth, aware of
the secrets, you saw and were afraid.
Of my testament and writ, my promises, I was true, you were my responsibility, you were afraid.

So when time comes and asks me questions, ready with the pen to sign my sentence, I will ask you this, my love -

Why were you afraid?

North Star Lost.

25th july, 2018.

As of late, I have found myself troubling with stuff that does not or should not concern me, and a whole lot of that has now disturbed my compass, my true north.

I believe everyone has a true north, even the most lost person has a north to which he or she really belongs and whether normal people like us (I am being gracious) can see that or not is of no consequence whatsoever.

My own compass, made of all sense and sensibilities, of all empathy and apathy alike, has always been loyal to me, I never had lost my way before. I might have taken a detour or two, took the more scenic routes every now and then, but in recent times, I seem to have lost my way, my compass has been spinning out of control. So much so, that it indeed has affected my very own nature, the one I thought describes me best. For me, at present there's no up, down, right, left, black, white.. nothing. It's just a dead center with threads leading everywhere which is chaotic, if I had to put it mildly. All of this has really upset the basic order which leads my days and is an extension of me in its own entirety.

Yes, indeed this all sounds like a complain, and to an extent it is one, I am not denying that. But then again, Zeno is gone a long time ago and there's nothing to do really. So till I find my true north, my pullback, this might become a problem, and a one that I cannot or maybe do not want to afford right now.

Right now, it's just a road to nowhere. To no one.

R. 

Move.

24th June, 2018.

It's quite an interesting notion I have about myself in the purview of human relationship. As I have talked about it many times, one only needs to go back to the older rants on this site, so I don't have to repeat myself again, it is a tedious habit after all.

When I say interesting, sometimes I do find myself in odd and at times extremely tricky situations where I do not know how to approach a certain aspect or whether should I even approach it or not. My past experiences had taught me that mostly it is a gamble, the response that I exert may or may not work as I expect. The question still hangs and at times I have an answer to it, I take the chances.

For example, in the current state of affairs, I am at the liberty to just walk away for good, leaving things as they are and not look back, but at the same time I find this option not only disloyal, it will have far reaching consequences which will bear more harm than good. And although I am not the one who will be affected much, I will be responsible for a lot of things. What I am witnessing is just pathetic by nature and harrowing by design. I can help, maybe I can, the dilemma here is whether I should or should not. Because at the moment both seems to be a bad idea which will multiply in an immense speed. Now maybe I am just taking it lightly because I am not the one in the eye of storm, I know how it feels like and I have an idea as to how will it pan out.

I guess, at this moment, it is better to let the design run its course, let it tire itself out and fall. I can pick the pieces later on.

Sort of story..

It was one of those nights, all over again. For him, it was one of those nights. He believed that there are two types of nights a person can have, one is the everyday monotony, the usual ones with the same repetitious progression where he'd be a normal person and trudge through the movement of time either reading something or glare back at the phone screen, aimlessly scrolling up and down, absently clicking on something not even noticing what is on the screen until sleep is considerate enough to arrive. The second one is one of those nights - the vague one.

Kolkata gets really quiet, really fast. It's 11.30 at night and already the locality around his PG has fallen silent, or almost silent, excluding the incessant chirping of the crickets.. 'stridulating', it is called, he had read it somewhere once. A pack of dogs bark somewhere, letting the others know of their turf and their dominance, somewhere someone unfortunate enough was making his way home at this late and ungodly hour, ringing the bell on his bicycle in sheer frustration. For the unaccustomed, days and nights of the city of joy are bipolar.

This would be his 10th or 11th cigarette now, he had lost count, and as a matter of fact he had lost the sense of time too. The orange street light unsuccessfullyy tries to illuminate his room, obstructed by a flailing cheap curtain, creating a strange shadowy, noir like essence. One can actually hope for a sharp scream from the corner of the damp alley and a whole hard-boiled sequence of a cheap detective novel. He fiddles a burning cigarette in one hand and his pen in the other one, which has led to small inked poke marks on his palm. A single A4 paper lays in front of him, tired and waiting, either to be torn apart or be scarred with whatever his patron feels like. Already a number of his own had been crumpled and thrown, some in the waste bin, most on the floor. They both exhale an exhausted breath, one with smoke, other with the weight of being a blank surface.

Stubbing out the cigarette, he makes up his mind. How difficult can it be?

Leaning dangerously over the paper as if trying to drown himself in the ink, he writes -

"Dear Mahamaya,
It is one of those nights...".

------------------------------------------------------------------

So I wrote this.. if anyone reads this, I would like to have an honest opinion..

Regards.

Surrender

Loud and loud, the music is now noise,
I taste bitter, 5 pegs down and on my 9th cigarette, I cannot tell you the difference.
I cannot tell you what song is playing, it's shit, it can be a good song either,
I just need the noise.

Time is nothing but a roundabout moment,
I am stuck on the junction between
going haywire and lie completely still, like a painting. I am confused, disprized towards
the gold.

All this, and for what? A pathetic adoration?
Admiration? Love?

Done with my ungodly devotion to self-destruction, I call it a night, promising,
not tomorrow, not again.

I surrender, under the pretence of change.
I surrender to lying.